After I Saw My Husband Kiss His Mistress

I needed to get out of the house. The walls felt like they were closing in on me, each room haunted by memories that now seemed tainted. My art supplies were running low anyway—a convenient excuse to escape the suffocating atmosphere of what used to be our sanctuary.

Blick Art Materials had always been my haven. The smell of fresh canvas, the rainbow array of paints, the possibility contained in every blank page—it was where I felt most like myself. Today, I hoped it might offer some temporary reprieve from the constant ache in my chest.

I wandered through the aisles, running my fingers along sketchbooks and brushes, not really seeing any of it. My mind was elsewhere—replaying that kiss outside the restaurant, the casual way Michael had lied about his evening, the receipt from Tiffany's.

"Excuse me, do you know if they have any pre-stretched linen canvases in stock?"

The voice pulled me from my thoughts. I turned to find myself face to face with her—Rebecca Thompson. In person, without the rain or the distance or the window between us, she was even prettier. Younger. Vibrant in a way that made me suddenly conscious of the dark circles under my eyes, the paint stains on my cardigan, the extra years I carried.

"I—I think they're on the back wall," I managed, my voice surprisingly steady despite the thundering in my chest.

"Thanks!" Her smile was genuine, friendly. She had no idea who I was. "I'm just getting back into painting after years of not touching a brush. My boyfriend's been encouraging me to pick it up again."

Boyfriend. The word sliced through me like a blade.

"That's... nice of him," I said, following her as if pulled by some invisible force as she moved toward the canvas display.

"He's amazing," she gushed, examining the different sizes available. "He texted me this morning saying, 'You're amazing' out of nowhere. Just because! Who does that?"

Michael does that, I wanted to say. He used to send me messages like that too, in the beginning.

Instead, I smiled—a frozen, painful thing that felt like it might crack my face. "Sounds special."

"We're going away this weekend," she continued, oblivious to my discomfort. "A surprise getaway he's been planning. He's so thoughtful that way."

My fingers tightened around the paintbrush I'd been holding. Michael had mentioned a business trip this weekend—another conference in Seattle. Another lie in a growing collection.

"I'm thinking of painting something for him," Rebecca said, selecting a medium-sized canvas. "As a thank you for being so supportive. Do you paint?"

"I used to," I answered truthfully. "Not much anymore."

"You should get back into it! It's so therapeutic." She tucked the canvas under her arm. "I'm Rebecca, by the way."

"Grace," I said, the name feeling strange on my tongue, as if I were introducing someone else entirely.

"Nice to meet you, Grace! Maybe I'll see you around here again."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak as she headed toward the checkout counter, humming softly to herself. I abandoned my shopping basket on a nearby shelf and left the store empty-handed, gasping for air once I reached the sidewalk.

* * *

That evening, I sat at our dining table, pushing food around my plate while Michael checked emails on his phone. The silence between us felt weighted, dangerous.

"I was thinking," I said carefully, setting down my fork, "about teaching a community art class. The center downtown is looking for instructors."

Michael glanced up, his expression distracted. "An art class? Now?"

"It's just one evening a week. I thought it might be good to—"

"Grace, you know how busy things are right now," he interrupted, his tone dismissive. "The Peterson account is taking all my time, and you've got the house to manage. There's no room for hobbies."

Hobbies. As if my art—the passion I'd put aside to support his career—was just a trivial pastime. As if I hadn't once dreamed of my own gallery, my own students, my own voice in the art world.

"Right," I said quietly. "Just a thought."

He returned to his phone, already forgetting our exchange. I watched him, this stranger across the table, and wondered how many other dreams he'd dismissed over the years—and how many times I'd let him.

In the reflection of the window behind him, I caught a glimpse of myself—faded, diminished, a ghost of the woman I used to be. And for the first time since discovering his betrayal, I felt something new stirring beneath the hurt.

Anger.